


mason jars and mile long halls

by saltydorkling



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Agoraphobia, Angst and Humor, Eventual Loki/Tony Stark, Idiots in Love, Learning to trust, Loki & Tony Stark Friendship, Loki the shut in, M/M, Natasha the russian spy, Protective Frigga (Marvel), Silly, Snowed In, Tony the paranoid neighbor, an ungodly amount of mason jars, bruce the werewolf, mason jars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-08-24
Packaged: 2020-09-25 01:30:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20368408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltydorkling/pseuds/saltydorkling
Summary: Tony wouldn’t say that he knew all of his neighbors well—he knew Bruce, sure, and knew of a woman named Natalie or Natasha, but he really wasn’t into the whole… neighborly ‘let’s get involved in each other’s lives like this is Friends’ deal.Still, though, Tony was curious about the tenant of 501C. He had never seen the guy living there—only heard him. 501C had a deep voice, and Tony occasionally heard it rumbling from across the hall, accompanied by a much smaller, softer voice that was still male, but… quieter. Like a gust of wind compared to a hurricane.But Tony never got to his door in time to see anyone—whoever had been talking to 501C in the hall either went into the apartment, or left in the five seconds it took Tony to madly dash across his economy sized lodgings to peer through the peephole like a stalker or paranoid old lady—the kind of one that calls the cops when someone’s dog poops on her lawn.Tony, by self-admission, wasn’t normal so nosy, but he really, really wanted to know what was up with 501C. He felt like a kid dared by his friends to enter a supposedly haunted house; scared shitless that the guy was some kind of serial killer, but dying with curiosity nevertheless.





	mason jars and mile long halls

**Author's Note:**

> so this is one of my favorite stories that I’ve ever written, and I’m so so happy to be sharing it again. I hope you enjoy this as much as I do ❤️

* * *

Tony wouldn’t say that he knew all of his neighbors well—he knew Bruce, sure, and knew of a woman named Natalie or Natasha, but he really wasn’t into the whole… neighborly ‘let’s get involved in each other’s lives like this is _Friends_’ deal.

Still, though, Tony was curious about the tenant of 501C. He had never seen the guy living there—only heard him. 501C had a deep voice, and Tony occasionally heard it rumbling from across the hall, accompanied by a much smaller, softer voice that was still male, but… quieter. Like a gust of wind compared to a hurricane.

But Tony never got to his door in time to see anyone—whoever had been talking to 501C in the hall either went into the apartment, or left in the five seconds it took Tony to madly dash across his economy sized lodgings to peer through the peephole like a stalker or paranoid old lady—the kind of one that calls the cops when someone’s dog poops on her lawn.

Tony, by self-admission, wasn’t normal so _nosy__,_ but he really, really wanted to know what was up with 501C. He felt like a kid dared by his friends to enter a supposedly haunted house; scared shitless that the guy was some kind of serial killer, but dying with curiosity nevertheless.

His other neighbors were fairly colorful, too; Bruce was overall pretty quiet, except for when, about once a month, it sounded like there was a monster truck rally going on in his apartment. Tony asked about it, but Bruce just smiled and shrugged, so Tony started tracking the freak outs on lunar charts. They didn’t _seem _to coincide with the full moon, but Tony still wasn’t going to rule out the fact that Bruce might be a werewolf.

He made peace with it, and stocked up on frozen raw steaks and silver, just in case.

Natasha or Natalie—Tony just called her Nat— _said _she worked for a butcher, which is why he occasionally saw her in the hallway with an artistic splattering of blood on her arms or face. Tony wasn’t fooled. She was obviously a Russian spy. Tony broke out his mother’s old Russian Orthodox bible to brush up on the language, just in case he needed to send her a message without someone else listening in.

So far, he could recite the Lord’s Prayer. Tony wasn’t sure if that could be used as a Russian spy code, but you never knew.

Knowledge was power, after all. It said so on his fridge, in brightly colored bubble magnets that Pepper bought before they broke up. Right under the phrase was the word FART, which Tony considered rearranging into something else, maybe RAFT, but he couldn’t remember if he was the one that spelled that, or if it was Pepper, so he left it be.

Besides, it occasionally made him giggle when he was drunk and rooting through the fridge.

In fact, Tony’s whole apartment existed as sort of a shrine to Pepper—when she moved out, she only took her clothes and some pictures, not wanting to cart furniture all the way across the country to the city where her new job was located. Tony left everything exactly where Pepper had left it; dishes were still stacked in the left cabinet, even though it didn’t make ergonomic sense, considering the right cabinet was much closer to the dishwasher, but that’s how Pepper did it, so that’s how Tony kept it.

All over her decorative throw pillows were still placed on the couch, despite the fact that Tony hated both sparrows and the color pale blue. That was how Pepper liked to decorate—she really jumped on the whole ‘bird on a soft background’ trend that was popular nowadays, and practically bought every little piece at Target.

But it was all Pepper’s, so it stayed.

The items, though cheaply made and in probably millions of homes, made Tony feel just a bit better about his crushing loneliness.

* * *

The toilet would not flush.

It just… lazily swirled around, taunting Tony by pretending like it was finally going to do its job properly, than regurgitating back up the horrors Tony had been trying to get rid of.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

He opened the back panel, convinced that if he could build a car from scratch, he could damn well fix a little pump action toilet. But the problem, Tony quickly realized, wasn’t the toilet itself—there was an issue with the pipes.

In the walls. It was November—could a pipe have burst?

“Fuck!”

Tony tried pleading. He tried bargaining with the thing, but the porcelain throne wasn’t interested in his blood or his first born. He tried banging on various parts of the walls, which only succeeded in startling Bruce and causing him to turn into his lycan form. Tony stopped after that, not willing to become a creature of the moon quite yet.

So, out of options, Tony swallowed his pride and called the landlord, who was adamant that he wouldn’t be able to get someone to look at the problem for another two days.

“But it’s my _toilet_!” Tony wailed, pretty sure this was petty revenge for the time he accidentally blew a hole in the wall.

“So pee in the sink.”

And that was that, so to speak.

Tony tried his best to pretend that nothing was wrong—nope, peeing in the sink, just like he was at a drunken college party—but there comes a time in a person’s life when they, well, need something a bit more private than a quick piss down a drain.

And that time came a few hours later, gut clenching and bowels trembling.

So he held it.

And held it.

Tony held it in for so long that he was certain there was going to be a blow out of massive proportions if he didn’t find a bathroom in the next fifteen minutes. But both Nat and Bruce were out—Nat was at work being a <strike>Russian spy </strike>butcher, and Bruce was… wherever the hell Bruce went when he wasn’t home being a werewolf and tearing stuff up.

That only left one place.

501C.

Tony stared at the dull brassy letters, stomach cramping up terribly. He wasn’t even sure that the guy would answer, and if he ran, he might make it to the bushes in time—-

No. Tony gathered up his courage and pounded on the door, completely ignoring the little knocker that was rattling in time with his fist.

501C’s door creaked open just enough for a single green eye to peer out, full of suspicion. “Can I help you?” The chain lock was still on, like the guy was concerned Tony might try to force his way in.

Tony jumped slightly at the harsh tone. “Um. Okay. This is gonna sound weird, but can I use your bathroom? My toilet is broken and the landlord hasn’t fixed it yet because he’s a bastard—normally, I could fix it myself; hey, hi, engineer and all that, pretty sure I can figure out a basic pump system—but it’s something in the walls and he’s already pissed at me for that one time a few months ago, so I’m not sure how he’d take me sledgehammering down the bathroom wall in the name of science and a good crap—-”

“My god.” The eye widened, appalled. “Do you normally talk this much?”

“Uh…”

The door inched open, like the guy wasn’t sure if he should or not. “Wait a moment.”

Before Tony could answer, the door slammed shut. He could hear the door chain rattle as it disengaged and the door swung wide, revealing Mister 501C.

Tony blinked. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, but 501C looked pretty normal, albeit pale as snow. He stuck a hand out. “Tony.”

The guy eyed it with extreme distaste. “Loki.” He didn’t accept the hand. “Come in. Bathroom is down the hall.”

Feeling decidedly unsure of himself and somewhat rattled, Tony stepped into the mysterious apartment that was 501C.

_Holy mason jars, Batman!_

Every inch of surface in Loki’s apartment was covered in mason jars—they were filled with every conceivable thing. One next to the door homed spare change; one held pens and pencils; some were stringed together above the couch with little tea candles inside. They were colored, covered in paper, filled with bric-a-brac, glittering and gleaming like glass jewels off every counter, table, and shelf.

“Um.”

“Bathroom is down the hall and on the left!”

“Right, right…”

The need to relieve himself was far stronger than Tony’s curiosity—but only by a bit. The bathroom was similarly adorned, with a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste sticking jauntily out of a jar. Another was covered in hair ties and stuffed with brushes and combs.

“Right,” Tony muttered again, perturbed. He de-pants and took care of his business in record time (noting that spare toilet paper was stacked in a gallon sized jar), pretty sure by now that Loki was a murderer and Tony’s liver was going to end up pickled in one of his many numerous mason jars.

As soon as Tony stepped out of the bathroom, Loki stuck his head in, glancing around like he was afraid that Tony had absconded with his jar of bath salts. Satisfied that all was in order, Loki turned back to Tony, whose eyebrow was hitching up to his hairline.

Loki flushed. “If that’s all…” He led Tony back through the hallway lined with shelves of… mason jars that he hadn’t noticed in his sprint to the bathroom. Colored ones, like a leprechaun vomited all in Loki’s hall after reaching the end of the rainbow one too many times.

“Thank you,” Tony said when they reached the door. The guy was nuts, clearly, but Maria Stark raised a gentleman, and Loki could’ve just let him crap in the bushes outside.

Loki shifted on his feet like he wasn’t to sure what to make of Tony’s gratitude. “Yeah,” he mumbled, chewing on his thumbnail and looking every inch an overgrown child with his too-large sweatshirt and confused expression. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but seemed to think better of it. Loki shook his head and shoved Tony out the open door, closing it with a **_bang!_**

Left blinking at the slammed door, Tony belatedly had a thought that Loki looked pretty cute when he blushed. You know, for a potential serial killer.

Six clicks rang out, and Tony frowned. The apartment doors came with three forms of security—a lock in the doorknob, a dead bolt, and a door chain… which meant Loki had installed three additional locks.

Yeah, that guy was definitely a serial killer.

* * *

Tony’s toilet got fixed the next day, and he was calling bullshit; there was no way the guy fixed it just by tugging on the chain in the basin.

* * *

The apartment bloc Tony was in was set up like a game of four square; they were up on the fifth floor, with Bruce and Tony were on one side of the hall, and Loki and Nat on the other. Sometimes Tony liked to pretend they were teams, and the teams scored a point whenever they caught an opponent outside—but then he realized how fucking sad that was and stopped playing.

(Besides, he was pretty sure Nat and Loki were winning.)

Tony tried to focus on finding another job—it’s not like mechanics with his experience and schooling were hard up for work—but the only shops in his immediate area were owned by a parent company that belonged to his father, and that was just… no.

His father, Howard, had been pressuring him to give up working on the actual guts of the car and design them again, like he had gone to school for. His father hated the thought of Tony getting his hands dirty: “That’s a low man’s work,” Tony could just hear ringing in his head in the gruff tone his father adopted when he thought Tony was acting in a disappointing manner—which was always. “And you’re a Stark.”

But Tony didn’t want to just design the cars; that was boring. He wanted to get in there, cover himself with grease like it was sunscreen and the shop was a beach. Tony needed the work, breathed it. He only felt satisfied when his whole body was exhausted from the sheer exertion of that could only come from manual labor.

That made him feel far more like a man than sitting in some office and counting benjamins.

Though, the benjamin perk, Tony had to admit, was pretty sweet.

So, out of work and with nothing to do during the day, Tony settled for staring at Loki’s apartment through the peephole, and Tony knew, deep in his suspicious heart, that Loki was doing the same.

* * *

Tony hated the holidays.

Well, more he hated the fake cheeriness that everyone put on and their unending desire to try to make people's’ lives better.

_How dare they be joyful._

Take Bruce, for example. In a fit of holiday madness, he whipped up a whole batch of chocolate cookies for Tony, each decorated with little lopsided green Christmas trees.

“Since it’s your first Christmas without… well…” Bruce shoved the tray full of cookies into Tony’s hands, stammering out a hasty, “Anyway-goodbye-enjoy-them!”

Tony stared at the little chocolate death disks and curled his nose.

When Bruce was safely back inside his own apartment, Tony sighed. He glanced at Nat’s door, but knew for a fact that she tipped out about an hour ago with the guy that occasionally hung around her apartment. That only left…

He considered, for just a brief, teensy moment throwing the cookies in the garbage, but Tony was sure they were good, even if he couldn’t eat them. So, he knocked on Loki’s door, balancing the tray on one hand like a waiter. Just as he was thinking that, hey, he’s pretty good at this, Loki threw open his door and startled Tony so badly that almost dropped the tray.

“Jesus!”

Loki furrowed his brow, glancing from Tony to the cookies. “What do you want?”

“Well, Bruce gave me these cookies—”

“Yeah, I saw that. What do you want, milk?” He snorted in a clear implication that Tony would absolutely _not _be getting any milk from him.

Tony bit back a triumphant smile—so Loki had been spying on him through the peepholes, ha! Just more proof that this sick bastard killed people and ate their brains.

He lifted the tray in offering, like Loki was some ancient and vengeful god who needed to be appeased with <strike>mason jars </strike>cookies. “I’m allergic to chocolate.”

Loki paused, taken back. “Oh. So, you’re giving them to me?”

“I mean, I thought about giving them to Nat—”

“Nat?”

Tony shrugged his shoulders. “Yeah. Her name’s Natalie or Natasha or something, but I just call her Nat.”

Loki blinked. “Natasha Romanov.”

“Excuse me?”

“Her name. It’s Natasha Romanov. She’s a Russian spy.” Loki’s lips set into a thin, hard line. “Obviously.”

Tony’s first thought was that the guy was completely batshit—but then he remembered that he, too, had such suspicions.

Still.

“Right,” Tony grunted. “Anyway, you want ‘em?”

Loki looked indecisive and chewed for a moment on his lower lip. “Alright,” he allowed, and poked his head out to glance around the hallway as though he was worried someone would be watching. “Come in.”

But as Tony entered, he couldn’t hold in the strangled noise that was prompted by the sight of _even more_ mason jars. They were all trussed up for the holidays in garish greens and reds and golds, stuffed full of tissue paper and candies, and striped, stinking candles. One held a thick, viscous goop that looked suspiciously like caramel.

Loki led him to the kitchen and fished around in the drawers for something to put the cookies in. But instead of producing a jar, as Tony expected, he pulled out some plastic bags with little dancing reindeer stamped on them.

“Just dump them in,” Loki said with a shrug. “I’ll give what I don’t eat to my brother.”

Tony complied, emptying the tray full of cookies into the bag. “You, uh. You really like the holidays, huh?”

Loki blushed. “My mom,” he mumbled. He cleared his throat and looked Tony in the eye with some difficulty. “She… does my shopping.”

Well, that would probably explain the reason why Tony had never seen Loki in the hallways. “Oh!” Tony exclaimed as the pieces clicked together. “Short and blonde? Kinda hot?”

“Kinda hot?!” Loki repeated, scandalized.

Tony winked. “Just joshin’, calm down. She’s a nice lady, let me borrow her phone when I locked myself out of my apartment.”

Loki, despite himself, looked intrigued. “And… how did you manage that?”

“Well, my girlfriend and I had a little bit of an argument…” Tony recounted the story with elaborate detail, gesturing wildly and grinning like a madman when Loki chuckled at the appropriate points.

Loki looked so happy, so beautiful when he smiled that Tony found himself derailing, adding more and more punchlines and zingers to the story, just to keep Loki’s mood up.

Story finished, Tony tried to prod Loki into telling one of his own, but Loki was starting to look like he’d had enough—his neck was flushed red, but his face was pale and sweaty.

“Are you okay?” Tony tried to say, but Loki grabbed his by his jacket lapels and shoved him out of the door. It was getting kind of old, being pushed outside.

Tony heard the six distinct clicks of Loki locking his apartment up tighter than a fortress, and it didn’t take a genius to guess that Loki was peeking through the peephole to watch him leave.

It was kind of an endearing image; Loki stooping down to see through the peephole that was installed too low and chewing on his lower lip. In Tony’s mind Loki was also pouting, but that was just conjecture.

Tony saluted the little glass peephole and meandered back across the hall to his apartment, not in the least bit offended by Loki’s abrupt dismissal. The guy was weird, sure, but he was also sort of cute and Tony just had a weakness for Mister Tall, Dark, and Handsome, even if he might end up murdered in a ditch for his trouble.

There were worse ways to die.

* * *

On Christmas day, Tony was glued to the peephole.

No one came to Loki’s door.

Come ten at night and with Loki still having had no visitors, Tony scribbled out a quick _‘Merry Christmas! Cheers, Tony’ _on a piece of notebook paper he tore from a grocery list and taped it just below the brassy 501C. He knocked twice and retreated to his own apartment. After a moment, the door creaked open. Loki looked terrible—and it wasn’t just the fisheye view the peephole gave; Loki’s eyes were puffy and red, and his hair was a giant tangled mess around his head.

But when he read the letter, Loki smiled and pressed the torn, tattered paper to his chest.

The next day, Tony found a note of his own taped to the door: _‘Happy Boxing Day. Best wishes, Loki’_

* * *

Tony’s chance to get to know Loki better didn’t come until January, when a snowstorm knocked out the power for nearly a week. Starved and cold, Tony had no choice but to impose himself on his neighbors’ goodwill—only Bruce and Nat weren’t there. Bruce had left town for some reason or the other, and Nat went to stay with a friend when she heard the outage might last a while.

Tony scoffed at that—some Russian, scared off by a little snow. Shouldn’t she be outside in a tank top, drunk off vodka? Granted, Tony’s knowledge of the Russian people came from bad TV and movies from the seventies, but still.

Disgraceful.

So, Tony was forced to pound down on Loki’s door, whimpering the Lord’s Prayer in Russian, on the off chance that Nat might have been lying about skipping out and could hear his distress signal.

But no, the door opened to reveal a breathless, grinning Loki, and Tony was left wondering why he was afraid of going to see him.

“Hey, Loki—”

“Food and blankets.”

“Excuse?”

Loki cleared his throat. “I’ve… got food and blankets. And candles.”

Loki stepped aside, and yeah—his apartment was in the same shape as Tony’s, but instead being pitch black, it was nicely lit with what was probably about a thousand candles. Tony could feel the heat pouring out from the room and groaned happily, already over the moon at having been promised food and blankets.

“I’ve also got a copper pan that’s for use with candles, so we can heat the food up.”

Bliss.

Tony followed Loki into in kitchen, illuminated by a string of mason jar candle lights up along the walls. Loki opened the pantry, and nope, Tony wasn’t all surprised to see the shelves lined with self-preserved food, all labeled with contents and canning dates on pretty swirly stickers that had a logo proclaiming, _‘Borson Gardens’._

Loki tilted his head and frowned before plucking out two jars and offering one to Tony. “Beef stew.” He kept one filled with something yellow for himself.

Tony dug around the drawers for a spoon and grabbed a fork for Loki when he requested one. He knew, in the back of his mind, that accepting food from Loki could be dangerous—not only because he was the hottest serial killer ever, but what if Tony caught some terrible disease that would cause him to crap himself to death?

Still, the allure of homemade beef stew was too much, and Tony figured he could deal with the dying part later.

The can made a very satisfying _pop!_ when Tony pried off the lid, which at least meant that it hadn’t been opened since it was canned, and he was fairly certain Loki wouldn’t poison his own food supply.

Tony dipped a spoon in and brought a little of the broth to his tongue.

“Oh, my fucking _god! _”

Loki grinned, all self-satisfied and smug. “Good?”

Tony moaned around a chunk of thick-cut beef.

“My mother makes excellent beef stew,” Loki paused for a moment, fiddling with his own jar and spinning it slowly in his hands. It could’ve been the warm light of the candles, but Tony swore he saw a faint pink coloring Loki’s cheeks. “I thought you might like it.”

“What’s that?” Tony asked, motioning to the yellow chunk speared on the end of Loki’s fork.

“Pineapple. Want some?”

Tony waved a hand. “Nah. I’m fine with this freaking amazing beef stew.” He dug into the jar again, moaning as he brought another rich spoonful to his mouth.

Loki grinned. “It is pretty good, isn’t it?”

“God, your mom made this?”

“Yup.” Loki gestured to the cabinets bursting with neatly labeled jars of all sorts of preserved vegetables, jams, and meats. “She cans everything under the sun and gives it to me… but never picks up the jars. And one day I got bored, and… well…” He swept a hand around. “This happened. She was the one who decorated all the jars for the holidays, though.” Loki nose scrunched. “I hate the color red.”

Tony looked up, aghast. “What? That’s the best color ever!” Fucking serial killers.

“No, green is.”

They both stared each other down until Tony huffed. He wasn’t willing to accept defeat, but the stew was amazing and the apartment warm, so he went on damage control. “Gold’s pretty nice, though.”

Loki perked up. “Yeah, I like gold…”

After an utterly riveting discussion comparing green-and-gold versus red-and-gold (_“But the gold accentuates the warmth of the red!”—“No, the gold contrasts nicely with the coolness of the green.” _), Loki produced several massive, fluffy blankets from his linen closet and tossed them on the couch.

“You can take them with you, if you want.”

Tony’s stomach bottomed out at what had the beginnings to be another abrupt dismissal, but he wasn’t ready to leave yet. Tony wanted to get to know Loki better, and not just because of the awesome stew. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He glanced around, trying to find something to talk about. He spied the Christmas note he wrote Loki a month ago, meticulously flattened out, next to a laptop. Smiling and with a little trickle of warmth uncurling in his chest, Tony asked, “So, what do you do for a living?”

“I, um—” Loki smoothed down the front of his huge t-shirt nervously. “I write.”

“Published?”

“Yeah.”

“Anything I’ve read?”

“Do you like fiction set in dystopic and post-apocalyptic worlds?” Loki’s eyes were bright as they flickered up to Tony’s. He still kept his face down, though, like he was worried about rejection.

Tony punched Loki lightly in the arm. “Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Loki smiled down at his feet, absentmindedly rubbing the spot where Tony touched him. “Then… maybe.”

They settled on the couch, each with a fresh jar in hand—Tony nabbed canned taco meat and some bread, while Loki just tucked into another can of pineapples—and, slowly but surely, they opened up about themselves, lubricated along with a bottle of cooking sherry that Loki fished down from above the stove and cracked open.

Their backstories were startlingly similar; Loki’s father wanted him to be a lawyer. He didn’t approve of his son’s chaotic and unreliable choice of careers, much less the fact that Loki was writing stories that were violent, filthy, and low-brow. Even when Loki had published two books and was drawing in a decent paycheck, the man still wasn’t satisfied.

“But my brother,” Loki snarled, banging his fork against the glass jar, producing sharp, discordant _clinks! _that left Tony’s temples pounding, “My brother was the golden child—he did everything right. Got into a good school, got a good job, married a good woman…” Loki broke off, sulking.

Tony passed him the bottle, and Loki drank a long drought, eyes narrowed in on some distant middle space and mouth set into a thin line. They were sitting facing each other, all bundled up in blankets and pillows like kids during a sleepover, and Tony nudged a foot out to poke Loki with a long toe.

“Hey, now. No judgment here.” The effect of that sentence on Loki was astonishing—he blinked, eyes huge like an owl’s, and relief broke out over his face, shoulders sagging down. Tony grinned and poked him again. “Just wait until you hear about _my _dad…”

They swapped ‘bad dad’ stories and attempted to outdo each other. The pair got drunker and drunker, until Tony, ruddy faced, slid off the couch and Loki roared with laughter. The motion upset Loki’s tenuous grip on his balance, and he too fell to the floor, plopping down right next to Tony with a startled grin and wide, pretty eyes, the empty bottle rolling away across the floor.

Tony stared at him for a moment, admiring the glow of the candles flickering over Loki’s flushed face and the little sliver of pale belly where his shirt had ridden up. Tony’s mouth went dry, and before he knew it, he leaned over to press a kiss to Loki’s lips.

Loki gasped, and Tony groaned to taste him—he tasted like cooking sherry and sweet, tart pineapple; not exactly a combination that he would have normally found appealing, but Tony pushed closer, the dam in his chest that held back all his loneliness, all his sorrow, burst and Tony just couldn’t get enough of the feeling of someone touching him like this. It didn’t matter that the floor was hard, or the angle awkward, because he wound a hand into Loki’s soft hair and placed another on the sharp curve of his hip, and Tony was in heaven.

But he jerked out of it when Loki touched his cheek with trembling fingers. Tony’s eyes flew open and he panicked to see tears glittering on Loki’s cheeks. He darted up onto his feet, drunkenly stumbled and almost tipping over again.

“Oh, oh god, Loki—I’m sorry, I’m—”

Loki rose to his knees, and opened his kiss-swollen mouth, but Tony stammered out another apology and all but flew from Loki’s apartment, completely forgetting to take the blankets Loki had previously offered—not that he would have been welcomed to now, after assaulting the poor guy like that, Tony thought grimly.

His apartment was dark and freezing with absolutely nothing edible inside, but Tony toughed it out and made a trip to the corner store, spending what little money he had left in savings to buy a bunch of canned food.

Tony covered up his peephole with duct tape and tried not to think of Loki sitting in his apartment, all alone.

* * *

The power buzzed back on two days later, and Tony was thankful that he had the foresight to clean out everything perishable from his fridge went he heard the outage was going to last a while.

* * *

Tony was woken up well into the evening by a polite knocking on his door. He had been dozing on the couch, laptop resting on his belly and still open on a job listing site. The sound jarred him, and his laptop nearly fell to the floor, but Tony caught it with reflexes honed from sheer desperation—there was no way he could afford to buy another one if this one broke.

The knocking sounded out again, a little firmer this time, and Tony wanted to smack himself on the forehead for taping up the peephole—but that was the only way to keep himself from spying on Loki’s door.

“Coming!” He yawned, and hefted himself up from his reclined position.

Tony opened the door, expecting Bruce, or maybe even Nat, but certainly not the mother of the guy he kissed in a drunken fit.

She smiled warmly. “Hello, darling.” There was a brushing of snow on her shoulders, and her hair was dusted white with it. In her small hands, she had a basket filled with mason jars. “I’m Frigga, Loki’s mother.”

“Hi, Mrs… er,” Tony wracked his brain, trying to remember the name on the labels. “Borson?”

Frigga’s smile stretched wider. “Please, just Frigga. May I come in?”

Tony nodded and stepped aside, feeling so nervous he might have vomited if he had had anything to eat that day. Why was she here? Was she going to berate him for molesting her son? Did she even know about that?

He gave the basket of jars that Frigga had sat down when she entered the stink eye. Yeah, she was probably going to poison him for what he did to Loki.

“My son tells me,” Frigga began, unwinding her scarf and doffing her hat, “That you really enjoyed my homemade beef stew, so I brought some more jars over. Also,” she dug through the bag and pulled out a huge tupperware container. “I brought some fresh, just made this morning.”

Poison be damned, Tony’s weakness was his stomach, and he could smell the delicious medley of flavors rolling off the container. His mouth watered and he had to swallow several times before he could manage a soft whimper of thanks.

Frigga smiled again—she had that motherly way about her, a comforting aura that made Tony want to bury his head in her shoulder and tell her what all the bullies called him at school today. There was something of Loki in the way her eyes crinkled, though, and Tony looked away, guilt roiling around in his belly.

She led herself into his kitchen and tutted as she took in the complete lack of food. Frigga checked in the fridge, and raised an eyebrow at the expired bottle of mustard and the various other condiments that were his sole provisions.

“It’s a good thing I came when I did,” she sniffed. “I’ll stop by tomorrow with more cans. I have to run Loki’s errands anyway.”

Tony opened his mouth the say that he wasn’t some college kid anymore, he didn’t need to be given care packages, but what came out instead was, “Loki’s errands?”

Frigga sighed. “You may have noticed, but my son doesn’t like to… leave his apartment.”

“Yeah,” Tony said quietly, though he was no better—since Pepper went away, he shut himself into the only safe spot he had left. “Can I ask why?”

“It’s not quite my story to tell, Tony. But Loki—well, he feels that people are constant staring at him, judging him, and it… It makes Loki anxious to be outside. I’ve tried to help him compensate by bringing him cheerful things to brighten up his apartment—in the spring and summer, he grows his own herbs on the patio, but…” Frigga put a gentle hand on Tony’s bicep, her face a bright, hopeful oval. “When he mentioned that he had made a friend, I just had to come see you.”

Tony gulped. There was a lump in his throat, and Frigga’s hand on his arm was a damning weight, hot like a brand. “Yeah,” he whispered, shame burning low in his throat and making it hard to speak, “Yeah, Loki’s pretty great.”

“Excellent. Than I do hope you both will start acting like grown men and _talk to each other _instead of hiding in your apartments like scared little rabbits.”

Wait, what?

Frigga had a few more choice words for him, shaking a finger in his face, but she didn’t seem angry or upset—just exasperated. Tony felt a mild flash of irritation that a woman barely up to his chest could make him feel so chastised, but it washed away when she smiled at the end of her lecture and patted his cheek, her touch echoing the one her son gave him before he ran out.

Tony touched his fingertips to where her hand had been, missing his own mother so badly it ached.

When Frigga left, once more reiterated her promise of stopping by tomorrow (and there was a veiled undercurrent of threat that this mess had better be resolved by then), Tony peeled back the duct tape on his peephole. The glass was gunked up and Tony had to scrape away the residue with his thumbnail. It took several minutes of determined scrubbing, but when he peered through, he saw Loki with a foot out of his open door, staring down Tony’s apartment. He took another step into the hallway proper, but twitched and leapt back into his home.

Tony sighed.

He gave Loki an hour to calm down his jittery nerves before Tony set out across the great plain that was the hallway. It was only a few feet, but it felt like miles. Tony raised a hand, and before he could even knock, the door flew open and Loki yanked him inside.

“You utter—fucking—moron!” Loki accused between kisses, holding Tony against the door by his shirt. “Stupid—fucking—”

Tony managed to fend Loki off for a second and gasped. “Jesus! I thought I had molested you!”

“Molested me?” Loki looked like he was flip-flopping between wanting to smack Tony and kissing him some more. “Did it escape your genius level intellect—”

“Hey,” Tony protested weakly.

“- _that I was kissing you back_?”

“You were drunk,” Tony said in a last ditch effort to be a decent person, but Loki’s pursed lips seemed to be drifting closer and closer, and Tony’s resolve snapped. He devoured Loki’s responding scoff, tangling his fingers once again in that thick black hair with a groan. Tony had dreamed about doing that, of yanking Loki’s head back to suckle on his adam’s apple—to feel it bob under his lips…

And it was even better in real life. Loki was vocalizing—just small, breathy whimpers, but the vibrations hummed against Tony’s tongue and burst through his brain like stars.

Loki’s arms wrapped around him tight, nails digging into the fabric of Tony’s shirt. His flesh would’ve surely been scored red if the thick sweatshirt wasn’t in the way, and Tony was lamenting that somewhat—he loved a little rough and tumble.

Tony pushed Loki back just enough, ignoring the irritated eye roll and quickly became much more pleased when Tony stripped off his outer layer. The mood shifted, and instead of returning his nails to Tony’s back, Loki rested his hands on Tony’s hips, his thumbs sneaking under the thin undershirt to stroke over the jutting hipbones.

Tony cupped Loki’s cheeks and drew him back in with a kiss that was much more tender than the angry jabs they had exchanged before—Loki tasted of pineapple again, and Tony sighed into him, the taste dredging up memories of how beautiful Loki looked in the shimmering firelight; how ethereal, like some mythical being come to earth.

But Loki took the kiss back over, driving harder, hotter, and hissing when Tony rolled his hips, tell-tale bulges grinding together. There was scrambling as they both rushed to divest themselves of shirts, yanking and pulling and tossing aside to who-cares-where, and Loki pulled Tony against his chest, bending at the waist to mouth at his dusky nipples.

Now Tony was the one clawing at Loki’s back, biting his lip and gasping as they rocked together. His cock was screaming, and Tony was willing to bet that Loki’s was, too, and just the thought of seeing the hardness that was pushing against him made Tony groan and his mouth water.

Tony rolled them so that Loki was the one pressed to the wall, held in place by a strong hand.

Panting, Tony grinned and let his eyes drift down. “Okay, tell me if this is too fast, but I needed your cock in my mouth about five minutes ago.”

“Heh!” Loki breathed, mouth red, hair mussed, and eyes wild. “Get down on your knees, then,” and Tony shivered from the note of command in that hoarse voice.

Smirking, he knelt down and unbuttoned and unzipped Loki’s jeans with his teeth. It was a neat trick he’d learned with Pepper, and Loki reacted in much the same way—gasping and canting his hips forward. But the erection that bounced free to whack Tony in the nose chased away all thoughts of his ex, and Tony found himself licking his lips.

He winked cheekily at Loki, affecting a worried look that was utterly ruined by the glittering of his eyes. “So, is it alright if I—”

“So help me, Tony, I swear to god—”

“Alright, alright.” Tony grinned up at Loki and popped the ruddy cockhead into his mouth with no preamble, delighting at both the salty taste and the broken, high-pitched whimper from Loki.

Loki stroked a hand over Tony’s head, the other pressed flat on the wall like he was afraid he’d fly off. “More!”

Chuckling, Tony complied, slurping halfway down Loki’s prick and massaging his tongue on the underside. It jumped in his mouth and Tony felt his eyes try to slide close, but he forced them open. He wanted to see Loki wrecked, and he wasn’t disappointed—Tony had barely started, and there was already splotches of red on Loki’s cheeks and chest, his belly billowing as he gasped for air. Loki’s eyes were tiny slivers of black-green as he squinted down at Tony, mouth hanging open.

Tony pulled of with a wet _pop! _and went to work laving his tongue around Loki’s length until it was covered in a fine sheen of spit. Loki was panting above him, fingers tightened almost painfully in Tony’s hair, spurring him on.

It looked kinda pretty, Tony thought with a possessive flare, Loki’s cock all gleaming and wet and roaring red. He sucked the head back into his mouth and tapped Loki’s hips, giving permission for Loki to move. Loki’s first thrusts were slow, hesitant, but as Tony gripped his ass and pressed him forward, Loki took the hint and moved with more certainty.

Tony gurgled happily around the thick press of Loki’s cock, one hand braced on Loki’s ass, and the other rolling his sac around with with calloused fingers.

Loki hissed, abdomen tensing, “Fuck, Tony, I’m going to come—”

Tony swallowed down as much of Loki as he could, tongue stroking the fat vein that ran along the length, throat convulsing, and Loki came with a shout, fingers gripping hard and pulling out some strands of Tony’s hair.

“Oh, god,” Loki gasped, head falling back against the wall with a thunk. “That was… oh, god.”

Tony smacked his lips together, rolling the surprisingly sweet taste of Loki’s semen around on his tongue. With a jolt, he remembered the jars and jars of preserved pineapple laying around.

“Loki,” Tony said slowly, comprehension dawning, “How long have you been planning this?”

Loki sagged down, spine bent and legs trembling. “Since… since you came here with the cookies. Around Christmas? Though,” Loki frowned with a furrowed brow, “I was worried you were a murderer.”

Tony snorted out a giggle at that and buried his face in Loki’s groin, nosing the limp and spit-covered prick. “Me, too,” he admitted in a murmur.

“You thought—Tony, are we paranoid?”

“Good god, no. Have you met Bruce? That guy’s a werewolf for sure.”

Loki huffed a laugh and offered a hand to pull Tony up onto his feet, drawing him against his chest and side. He slid the other down the front of Tony’s undone jeans, pulling out his aching erection and pumping him—the hand was dry and the motion chafed a little, but Tony felt too good to complain.

It was nice, getting jerked off while holding hands and sort of cuddling. All at once, Tony’s orgasm rushed out of him—god, it’d been months since someone else touched him like this—and Tony leaned heavily against Loki, stooping down slightly to tuck his head into the crook of Loki’s neck. He murmured a soft _thank you__,_ and Loki wrapped an arm around his shoulders to squeeze him into a one-armed embrace.

Loki brought his other hand up to his face, examining the spunk clinging to his fingers. He darted out his pink tongue to taste and made a face. “Bitter.” Grimacing, Loki wiped his hand on the back of his jeans.

“Yeah, sorry,” Tony laughed, “But I haven’t been the one eating pineapple like it’s going out of style.”

“True.”

There was a beat, and they both burst into laughter. Tony slid down to his knees again and wrangled Loki down with him. Loki’s couch was only a few steps away, but it might as well have been miles for all they felt like making that trek.

Loki nuzzled his nose into Tony’s hair and asked in a hesitant voice, “So… what now?”

“Dunno. Do you think the landlord would let us build a wall connecting our apartments together?”

“No, probably not,” Loki chortled and squeezed Tony as close to him as possible, like he was scared Tony was going to leave him alone.

Which was just silly—he was absolutely stuck with Tony now.

* * *

Loki was right about the landlord, but that didn’t stop Tony from asking, just to piss the guy off for shits and giggles.

Besides, his name was _Fury__,_ of fucking course Tony wanted to make him as _furious _as possible.

* * *

Somewhat emboldened by his success with Loki, Tony set out to met his other two neighbors properly. Natasha—despite her name and Loki and Tony’s suspicions— _was_ just a butcher, and when she wasn’t at work, she was with her boyfriend, Clint.

The guy was pretty funny, and Natasha, Clint, and Tony quickly started a bar-hopping routine every Friday night, running around town like crazy people getting drunk off their asses. Clint was a freaking master at darts, but Tony was able to drink him under the table, so they called it even.

Bruce, as it turned out, wasn’t a werewolf, but a regular guy with a teensy-tiny anger management problem.

But Tony didn’t throw out his silver, _just in case._

* * *

When spring finally broke through the barricade of grey winter, Tony went out to a nursery and bought Loki has many flowers and herbs to pot on the patio as he could afford. He hand chose the best plants he could find with healthy green leaves and vibrant petals. It totally broke his budget, and Tony wasn’t going to be able to afford groceries that week.

The look on Loki’s face was completely worth the imminent starvation.

Two days later, Frigga and a large blond man with a friendly smile showed up on his doorstep laden down with so many groceries that even Mister Muscles—who turned out to be Loki’s brother, Thor, and owner of the deep voice Tony originally attributed to Loki—was straining and red faced.

* * *

It took some time, but one sunny day while Loki was sitting out on his balcony watering his basil, he turned to Tony and asked if he thought they should go for a walk.

“Outside?” Tony asked, “Or just down the hall?” It wasn’t a mean-spirited question; Tony didn’t want to push Loki too far, too fast.

“Down the hall,” Loki said firmly. His hands were trembling, so Tony smack a loud kiss on his cheek and smiled. There was so much he wanted to say, so much encouragement ready to roll off his tongue, but Tony knew Loki well by now; making a big deal of it would only make Loki feel pressured.

Loki finished up with his gardening and washed his hands well, scrubbing the skin until it flushed pink. He inhaled deeply. Loki went to change out of his dirt covered shirt, then decided to change pants, as well. Than socks, and shoes, and underwear. Loki chewed his nail for a moment, the left to take a shower.

Tony just waited patiently, sitting on the couch.

Finally, Loki appeared wearing completely different clothes, hair pulled up in a tight bun and tucked under a beanie. “Okay,” he breathed, hands shoved deep in his pockets. “I’m ready.”

Tony smiled, but didn’t ask if Loki was sure; he just looped an arm around Loki’s elbow and steered them to the door. Loki hesitated for only a moment before striking open the door with a surety that was probably feigned, but he took a solid step over the threshold.

And then another.

And then another.

They not only went down the hall, but all the way to the ground floor from the fifth.

* * *

It took a few weeks of walking around the halls before Loki was comfortable enough to push open the main doors to the outside, but when he did, he toughed it out for a whole block before needing to go back home.

Some days, obviously, were better than others—there were times when Loki couldn’t muster the will to even step outside of his apartment and times when he made it all the way to the corner store a few blocks down. But every step was a victory, and Tony was healing just as much as Loki.

* * *

One rainy day in April, with nothing better to do, Tony cleaned his apartment of all of Pepper’s stuff and donated everything to the local charity shop.

It was startling, how bare everything seemed, but… it was nice. Cleansing. Tony breathed in deeply, remembering how sweet Loki smelled, like basil and sunshine, and exhaled Pepper. That time was over. It was done.

Time to let go.

Tony left the FART on his fridge, though. The goofy bubble magnet word still made him giggle.

* * *

But all good things must come to an end, so to speak. Even with Frigga’s frequent food drop offs to help support him, Tony’s money had run out. He needed a job—frankly, he needed one six months ago, but now was as good a time as any to find one.

Fortunately, though, Clint knew a guy who knew a guy and they were able to get Tony a job in a mechanic shop on the other side of town.

It came just in time, too, because the expiration of Tony’s lease was coming up hot and fast, and his bank was threatening to close his account due to the lack of funds. Clint also offered Tony a place to stay while he settled in—it was just an old garage that was converted into a living space, but the rent Clint was offering was pretty cheap, and it was within walking distance to his new job.

Tony almost didn’t accept, though, concerned as he was about Loki not being able to visit. It felt too much like what Pepper did to him; just up and accepting a new job with what might as well have been a thousand, thousand miles put between him and Loki.

But Loki held Tony tightly and told him to go, that he would be fine.

Their sexual relationship hadn’t progressed beyond kissing, teenager-esque groping and frottage with the occasional blowjob. They were laying together on Loki’s mattress, and Tony had his head pillowed on Loki’s shoulder, trying to figure out if it was feasible to dig a tunnel from the apartment building to Clint’s house, when Loki rolled him over and caged him in, pinning his body down, wrists yanked up over his head.

It started with Loki kissing Tony hard and desperate, pushing him into the the rickety mattress and quickly progressed to Loki’s wandering finger pressing tentatively to Tony’s dry hole.

There was a silent question in his eyes, and Tony responded by dashing out of Loki’s apartment and into his own, buck ass naked with his hard-on flopping around, to grab lube and some condoms.

When he came back, Loki was in tears from laughter, and Tony was just glad no one was in the hall to be scarred by his display.

* * *

Tony settled in pretty quickly to his new place—it was nice, and even had a little kitchenette and bathroom installed, so he didn’t have to go into the main house and bother Clint with the endless cycle of eating and producing waste.

The work was fantastic. At the end of the day, Tony came home sweaty, aching, and covered in grease, and he couldn’t have been happier. The pay was pretty great, too; Tony estimated that if he kept on budget, he’d be able to get a place of his own, soon.

He texted Loki enough to put a teenager with a crush to shame and they talked every day at the end of Tony’s shift. Loki was working on a new book, he said, and he had a feeling it was going to be a hit. Tony made Loki read him chapters over the phone, and even offered some suggestions. It was a crapshoot; sometimes Loki exclaimed with delight, sometimes he sniffed and immediately hung up.

Tony wouldn’t have had it any other way.

About two months in, someone knocked on Tony’s door. It was noon on his off day, and Tony was expecting maybe Frigga—she still brought food over despite his not needing it anymore, and by now he had as many jars as Loki; she just kept forgetting to pick them up.

Tony opened the door.

“Hey,” Loki said, hefting up a box. “I come bearing gifts. Also,” he added thoughtfully before swooping down to kiss Tony’s scruffy cheek, “I missed you.”

* * *


End file.
